


Flickers Like a Candle Flame

by Metronomeblue



Series: imagine me & you- forever [4]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Abusive Parents, Aizen is a stalker and a creep, Anger, Deception, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Gin is a good friend, Grief/Mourning, Hair Brushing, Hand Jobs, Happily Married, Hollowfication, I'm a flower hoe, Illusions, Intimacy, Justice, Language of Flowers, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oaths & Vows, One-Sided Attraction, Promises, Spiteful Bouquets, Step-siblings, Vaginal Sex, Wedding Planning, Wedding Rings, these are all out of order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 10:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13315944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: Asuka remembers loving Shinji even as she copes with losing him.





	Flickers Like a Candle Flame

**Author's Note:**

> So This is much longer, and much more emotionally involved than the last bit. It's also something I'm more proud of tbh. If i missed any tags, please tell me. I get a bit lost sometimes.

The day after their wedding, Shinji asked her to promise him something. **  
**

She remembered that day clearest, after. The wedding itself was small, smaller than most Captains’ weddings in the past, but Shinji had always been intensely private about the things that mattered. None of the other Captains were surprised they hadn’t been invited. Most of them hadn’t even known she existed until the Captain Commander had congratulated him on his engagement. It was a small ceremony, but long and exact. The Hirako family might have been absurdly minor nobility, but they were also absurdly strict about their observances.

The more time she spent with them, the more she understood why Shinji  _didn’t._

They were insistent on a traditional wedding, every moment choreographed according to the expectations of a noble house. Asuka had managed to evade them entirely throughout her relationship with Shinji, with no shortage of help from the man himself. The two of them would sight his family and slip, laughing, into the crowd. They’d run up alleys and into groves of trees on the edges of the Kuchiki estate. They were Hirakos, however, and Hirakos are persistent, so some days he had to stay behind so she could run. Every time, she gave him a kiss in thanks, smiling and tinted with whatever fruit she’d stolen from the bakery that day.

When the time came for him to ask his family for permission to marry her, there was some measure of outrage. And by some measure of outrage, what Asuka meant was complete and utter  _fury._  They’d known he was seeing someone. The heir of the house Hirako did not simply go unmonitored, no matter how clearly he’d drawn the boundaries between their lives and his. The lunches spent out of the office, the nights his rooms in the barracks remained dark, the strange, soft smile that sometimes fell on his face- there had to be someone. But locked out as they were, so clearly divided from what he considered important, they could take no further action, make no further inquiries. Until.

Shinji asked her to marry him before he asked them if he could marry her. It was, overall, a reckless, spiteful thing to do. If they had said no, if they had denied his pleas and forced him into an alliance to some pretty, anonymous, rich girl from a higher family, he’d have no recourse but to acquiesce or be disinherited entirely. Every time she brought this up he rolled his eyes.

“They got to choose a lot of things in my life,” he snorted. “They don’t get to choose what I do now.” She just sighed and nodded. She trusted him to make his own choices, but when that choice was  _her_ … it felt wrong, like she was taking something she didn’t deserve.

So it was a spiteful decision, but it was the one he made. To ask her before them because her answer was the one that mattered. But once that was done, he went before his family and knelt and told them he had already asked her. His knees hurt, on the cold ground before them, burning with the promise he’d made to himself when he left- that he’d never kneel for them again, he’d never bow before them for anything less than his own life. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t bowing. It wasn’t submitting. He was there to ask, not beg. Head high and face set he told them she’d said yes. That he intended to marry her regardless of what they said. That they were welcome to come, if they could be civil to him and kind to her.

They lost it, he’d tell her later, with a smug grin. Turns out some archaic law (“Probably put in by some bastard like me,” he laughed.) stated that they couldn’t outright veto a betrothal already accepted, couldn’t force the Heir to break a promise. They could only try to convince him, sway him to their side of things.

And he would not be swayed from her.

So they began to wonder if she could. They came to her work, visited her home, dropped by Shinji’s office. It was a concentrated campaign for her to leave him, or to at least allow herself to be subjected to his family’s scrutiny. In the beginning, they came once a day, to beg and plead and cajole at the door, yelling so she could hear them. In the beginning she wondered if they were right. She wrote out an entire speech about how he deserved better and should let go of her for his own good.

He came home that day, took one look at her, and dragged her straight to bed. He was so gentle that night, careful and focused like there was nothing in the world but her. He wouldn’t take his eyes off of her, fierce in his focus. He kissed her, afterwards, intent and sweet, trying to tell her something she couldn’t quite reach. She hummed beneath him, soft and flush and open with the pleasure he’d given her.  She thought maybe it was his way of saying goodbye. But he stayed with her. Slept beside her, arms reaching for her in the night to pull her in close, reluctant to let her go. She lay there, face buried in his chest, listening to the clock tick down to dawn, thinking. The next day she smiled and tossed a pitcher of water out over his cousin, who screamed and ran off their front porch.

They kept coming, though they were summarily refused each time. Once, Shinji had to physically drag that same cousin out of their house. Asuka stood awkwardly behind a potted plant and wondered if she was really worth all of this. They laughed about it later, because, well, it  _was_  kind of funny, but the continuous assaults on their time together and their relationship as a whole were becoming altogether hostile. Almost homicidal. And Asuka was beginning to worry for him.

So when one day they abruptly stopped, she was even more worried. Shinji took the afternoon off. He didn’t tell her why. She spent hours trying to finish the accounts for the bakery and failing because she was too busy chewing on the end of her brush and worrying.

He poked his head through the door and called her over to the next room.

He sat on the floor between her knees, her hands in his hair and a small smile on her face. Shy, but grateful to be granted this much time with him.

“They want to see you,” he said quietly, tension stretched thin in his voice. He paused for a long long moment. It was a pause, though, and she knew it. This was the reason he’d taken the rest of the day off. This was the reason for his being there.

“And?” She eventually asked, beginning to comb his hair back, gathering it in her hands with a strange reverence. Like she still wasn’t sure she was allowed. He let out a sigh and relaxed into her touch as if it was the sweetest thing he’d ever felt. When he opened his eyes again, they were tired, and she wondered again if she should let him go.

“I told them it was up to you and no one else. They can order me around all they like, but you don’t have to do a damn thing they say.”

“Won’t they come after you for this if I say no?” Asuka asked, pulling his hair back more tightly so it really formed a ponytail. He made a face, leaning back further between her knees. She reached a hand forward over his shoulder and he scrambled a little.

“Eh,” Shinji shrugged, finally finding and handing her a tie for his hair. “I never followed the rules anyway. They’re just pissed they never got the chance to pick on you before now.” She began tying it off, but her eyes flicked back to the door, troubled.

“Shinji,” she began, before biting her lip and stopping.

“Hm?” He asked, tone purposefully even, as if not to scare her into further silence.

“Shinji, I want them to like me,” she admitted. She looked down at her hands, avoiding his eyes. He bent forward a little, bowing his head. “Is that awful?”

“They don’t deserve the concern,” he said quietly, turning to face her. He knelt on the ground, his face tilted up to hers, her knees on either side of him. He reached up to tilt her chin, making her look him in the eye. “Asuka, they’re cruel, superficial people, and they’re never going to like you.” His other hand was soft and warm on her knee, his thumb rubbing circles into her thigh. “They’ll never see your value or your kindness. And it wouldn’t matter if they did.”

“Because you do?” She asked, and the tease in her voice made him smile with something like relief.

“Yeah. But also because their opinions don’t mean a damn to me.” He smiled up at her, something so soft in her eyes it almost hurt to look at him. “I love you. If they disowned me tomorrow I’d say fuck ‘em and marry you anyway.”

“They’re your  _family_ ,” she insisted sadly, and he pressed one thin finger to her lips.

“ _You’re_  my family. They just made me.” He took his finger away from her mouth so he could kiss her. It was a soft kiss, sweet and sad and hopeful. And fierce, with his insistence and her agreement. “They just made me,” he repeated, pressing his nose into the space beside hers. “But you make me better.”

“Then let me make this easier,” she said, the strength and certainty returning to her voice. “We’re going to talk to your family, and we’re going to go along with their bullshit until we’re married, and then we’re going to ignore them for the next thousand years.” He laughed.

“Alright, darling.” A piece of Shinji sighed with relief. He’d never hold her insecurities or her uncertainties against her, but he was always happier to see her on steady ground. To see her strong and full of life. A piece of him grumbled even then that his stupid family was ruining the things he loved most. That they were hurting her and therefore he should keep them apart.

But she’d made her choice, and he’d made his.

And his was her.

High time they faced the consequences. When the guards opened the gates to find the heir apparent and his betrothed outside, they damn near had a fit. Shinji’s father and stepmother greeted them imperiously, speaking only to Shinji and ignoring Asuka. Which was fine by her, but it seemed to set Shinji even more on edge.

“Who are her family?” His stepmother asked, peering haughtily down at her.

“None of your business,” he snorted. Asuka rolled her eyes inwardly. Of all the questions they were likely to ask, _that_  was actually a reasonable one.

“The Shiroma family of the Eighth District, your ladyship,” Asuka replied for him, bowing appropriately low. His stepmother squawked, fanning herself.

“The Eighth District? Gods, Shinji, when you said she was of a lower rank I believed you meant she was from lesser nobility, not this,” she waved her fan at Asuka. “ _Person_.” The tone in which she said it made it rather clear how little she meant to consider Asuka a person.

“I have no illusions regarding my birth, your ladyship,” Asuka explained. “I have very few illusions about this situation as a whole, in fact.”

“Nobody asked her to speak,” his father said, lip curling. “Do make her quiet, Shinji.”

“You’re asking questions,” Shinji said lowly. “She’s answering. I’m not going to. Don’t start with this shit again.”

“Hmph,” his father grunted, narrowing his eyes. Asuka stayed silent this time, noting instead how similar the man was to his son. And how different. They shared the same bright hair, but where Shinji’s was long and free, flowing like ribbons behind him, his father’s fell to his shoulders, fading to silver where she could tell it had once been gold. They had the same eyes, narrow and clever, but Shinji’s were warm brown, soft when he looked at her. His father’s were black, stone cold and hard whenever they passed over Shinji.

They were supposed to stay for dinner. A family dinner, every honored relative and influential friend invited for a banquet. Asuka was already nervous, but her anxiety only increased when she noticed the number of settings at the table Shinji led her to.  _Five_. One for his father, one for his stepmother, one for Shinji himself, and two for two of his half-sisters. They were told to sit, but Shinji’s hand still clutched hers, so Asuka just sank down with him.

“Where’s her plate?” One of the sisters asked innocently. Asuka thought she might’ve been the elder one, but she wasn’t certain. None of them were talking to her, anyway. Shinji’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he looked startlingly like his father.

“I’m sure she can wait on us. I’ve heard that’s what servants are for,” his father shrugged.

“Why are you doing this?” Shinji asked, and his voice was half-pain half-anger. “I-  _we_ , are trying to compromise. Why do you have to be so cruel?”

“If you insist on bringing in trash, I’m afraid we must treat it appropriately,” his stepmother said sweetly. Shinji let out a sound of almost physical pain, and Asuka sighed, losing any and all inhibitions she might have earlier had. “You might’ve chosen something a bit prettier, if you were going to go looking through the gutter,” his stepmother continued offhandedly. Shinji damn near snarled, and she slid her hand over his on his thigh. He stilled, and she smiled calmly.

“Very kind of you,” she agreed. She looked to Shinji and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You can stay if you need to,” she told him, then turned back to his stepmother with that saccharine smile. “But I’m afraid you usually must take out the trash.” She stood, and Shinji looked up, mouth falling open a little. “ _I_ , your ladyship, can walk out just fine by myself.” So she did, sweeping past the arrayed noblemen and their wives with much more confidence than she usually felt. Her feet slid evenly over the polished wood and her eyes never left her target, fixed on the door instead of the whispers circling around the room.

She walked home in silence, her head buzzing with colliding smugness and uncertain shame. It was a stupid thing to do. It felt damn good. But it was a  _stupid_  thing to do. What if they fired her at the bakery? She could find another job. But what if they fired her? What if she made things worse? What if she ruined things for Shinji?

Shinji must have used shunpo to catch up with her, because he met her just as she reached their own front door, pressing her flat to the wall with a bruising kiss. His mouth was soft on hers, but his teeth grazed her lips, her neck, her collarbone. She pulled him through the door and reached clumsily behind herself to slide it shut. They didn’t make it halfway to their bed before he had her on her back on the floor, his hand between her legs and his mouth murmuring all kinds of filth into her ear.

Apparently, Shinji liked it when she was confident. Really,  _really_  liked it.

His family gave in, after that mad little show of self-respect. Ungracefully, unwillingly, and whining about her the whole way, they gave in.

Because the whole thing was now at their expense, they started arranging it with a fury. The flowers were almost a loss, but Asuka snatched that aspect of planning as quickly as possible. Lily of the valley and ivy. And nothing else. The food was arranged, the guest list (for the reception, because she and Shinji had both immediately called a halt to any gawkers during the actual ceremony) was filled. They all but manhandled her and Shinji into the tailor’s for ‘a proper fitting’, as if they hadn’t been through all of this before. The tailor had no assistants, so his stepmother recruited some of the cousins to help. They plucked at her and poked at her and sniped and snarked and mocked until she felt small and unsatisfactory.

“Honestly!” One cousin huffed, pulling a measuring tape taut against her waist. “Is  _she_  really going to wear something this nice? It’s unbefitting of such a person.” Shinji rolled his eyes and muttered about why he left them in the first place. There was definitely some mention of  _elitist twits_ , but she didn’t catch much else.

“I’m not going back!” He yelped when his stepmother grasped him by the back of the neck. “You won’t take me alive!” Asuka laughed, and he grinned at her like maybe that was why he’d said it.

“Foolish boy,” his stepmother snapped, holding him still for the tailor to measure him from wrist to wrist.

“What do you mean, you won’t go back?” Asuka asked, looking for a distraction from the tape snapping against her wrists, her thigh, her waist, her chest- she kicked the cousin measuring her bust in the shin. That was just  _inappropriate_.

“If I wanted all the pressure of being the eldest son I’d’ve stuck around wouldn’t I?” He snorted, reluctantly letting the Lady Hirako pull the tape tight around his chest with a strange expression somewhere between annoyance and shock. “Oi! Your hands  _don’t_  go there!”

“That’s my line,” Asuka muttered, kicking the same cousin’s other shin. _Honestly._

“I left the whole shebang behind after they started talking about my leaving the Division. Once I did that, they started popping out kids in the hope that one of ‘em would be a son and they could kick me off the list entirely.” He smirked at his stepmother, now bright red and sputtering. “But it looks like you’re stuck with me, eh?”

“Unfortunately,” she huffed. Asuka laughed. He smiled.

She broached the subject again that night.

“You made a fool of yourself for me,” she said, and it was a question as much as it wasn’t. He was lying behind her, his arms folded around her waist, their legs tangled. She felt warm, and safe, and so unbelievably happy. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” he whispered, moving so his chin rested on the top of her head. “And I can’t bear to watch what they do to you.” Her hand curled around his on her waist.

“We get through this wedding,” she repeated to him, reminded him. “And then we ignore them forever.” Her voice was firm, determined. Not small, not weak, not soft. “Sound good?” She asked, as if she was doubting herself suddenly.

“Sounds perfect, darling.” He smiled, squeezing her waist. “Just you and me and whoever we like.”

“Yamayo and Fuumiko are halfway decent,” she suggested. “We could get to them before your stepmother beats the kindness out of them.”

“The Hirako Home for Children of Unfortunate Parents,” he joked, and the warmth that flared in him when she laughed was worth anything.  _Everything._

The wedding was a solemn, emotional affair. His father and stepmother perched behind their table on one side of the room, their noses turned up and eyes squinting at them both. Asuka’s side of the room was empty, and enduring the cold atmosphere was more difficult without someone or something to balance it. Asuka stood tall, though, eyes sharp and head held high, as the priest and miko purified the shrine. Shinji was beside her, looking more serious than she’d ever seen him. She snuck another glance at him, taking in the dark haori and striped hakama, his hair pulled back neatly. A giddy little smile snuck onto her face.

He was going to be her  _husband_.

It was only just now sinking in that this was forever. He was willing to pledge  _forever_ to her. There was no going back on this, no way to turn around and say ‘ _no, you aren’t enough_ ,’ no way to burn her name from their family scroll, no way to let go. She’d decided a long time ago that she’d spend the rest of her life loving him, whether from afar or from beside him, but the realization that he felt the same, that he would make the same promise…

“You okay?” He murmured, looking over at the strange expression she was making.

“I love you, is all,” she whispered back, shock changing to the most radiant smile on her face.

The smile he gave her in return was just as bright. Just as beautiful.

The priest began the  _san-san-ku-do_  rites, and they sank down beside each other.

The first pour went fine. Shinji took his three sips, then offered the cup to her, and she took her sips. Smooth. Easy.

The second pour was hers, and she could feel her hands trembling in her lap. She grit her teeth and reached for the cup. Her hand shook, and she cursed herself. She should be over this. All of this. She took the cup, and prayed it wouldn’t spill. She could feel his family’s eyes on her back, judging, and she had to swallow her fear. And then Shinji’s hands closed around hers, light and warm, and the shaking stopped.

“Asuka,” he said, hushed and calm. “It’s alright.” He met her eyes, refusing to look away even as she began to drink. It was as though all the air had left the room. He could have killed her in that instant and she would have let him. She wouldn’t have even noticed, so thoroughly caught in his eyes and the love she found there. She passed it to him easily, nary a tremor to be seen.

He took his three sips and set the second cup down.

The third pour was his, too. Their eyes met once more as he passed the cup to her, and she smiled at him. Three sips each, and then the priest said the final blessing over that part of the ceremony. They rose as one, moving closer to the shrine to recite their vows.

The priest nodded at Shinji who cleared his throat, taking her hands in his.

“I asked you to stay with me,” Shinji said quietly. His stepmother leaned forward, trying to hear, but Shinji and Asuka were so enraptured by each other they hardly noticed. “I asked you to be my wife, to never leave me. Now I ask that you let me stay with you. Allow me to be your husband, to never leave you. To be with you in all things, as a friend, a partner, a lover. Allow me to cook for you, and fight for you, and fight  _with_  you, sometimes, I dare say,” he laughed a little, and her smile spread so far it looked like it might hurt. “Give me that great honor, Asuka. Say you’ll let me be your husband.”

“Yes,” she said, a breathless, half-sob of a laugh breaking free. “ _Yes._ ” She blinked away almost-tears. “I promised I’d never leave you. I promised I’d stay beside you. Now I promise to fight for you. To  counsel you and comfort you. To be with you every day I can and to remember you on the days I can’t. To cook for you when you _fail_  to cook for me,” he grimaced. “To make you happy in any way I can. To love you, _always_.” His eyes were conspicuously brighter than usual. “Let me be your wife,” she asked. “Shinji, please. Let me be that.”

“ _Yes,_ ” he said, and it was a strangled, sharp sound. Like there was nothing in the world he wanted more. His parents each took a drink, and the half-hearted “Kampai,” that rose up just made them both laugh. The priest looked downright offended at their lack of joy.

The evergreen offering was placed upon the shrine, and Shinji put down a truly lovely group of candles, which he lit with a quick prayer and a bow. His father followed with a reluctant bundle of incense. His stepmother dropped a bouquet on the altar. Asuka followed slowly, placed a box of wagashi on the altar. She’d made them herself, shaped and mixed and molded until they were perfect. There was no gift worthy of the blessing she’d been given, but she thought this was as close as she could come today.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the shrine. “Thank you.”

She rose, taking Shinji’s hand and smiling up at him. He slid the ring onto her finger with no small amount of pride and a wide grin. She placed his ring in his hand, and the grin faded. His fingers closed reluctantly around it, and he slipped it into the inner pocket of his haori, over his heart. Her smile faded, too, and he noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, face tight. “I-”

“I know,” she cut him off. She hated this the most, perhaps. That he felt so at war that he couldn’t even marry her without feeling the need to hide it. But it was who he was, and she could hardly change it. She reached out, pressing her fingers into his chest, just where the ring lay. Cold metal under her warm hand. “You’ll carry it, though?” His hand came up, twining with hers and pressing it to his heart.

“ _Always_ ,” he swore, and the fierceness in his eyes comforted her.

They didn’t end up sleeping together that night. They were both so tired, so happy, so glad to be  _married_ , that they just curled up together and fell asleep. She woke the next morning to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, turning his ring over and over in his hands. She sat up, scooched over to sit behind him, tangling her arms around his neck.

“Okay?” She asked, and he nodded, turning to look at her.

“It feels too good to be real,” he admitted. His fingers closed around the circle of gold. “I have to keep checking.”

“Me too,” she said bashfully. “I think I woke up every hour just to look at it.” She held up her hand, the gold band on her finger bringing a strange, light smile to her face. She reached down and plucked the ring from his hand. “Can I?” She asked. He nodded, looking a little confused. She moved so she was sitting beside him and snatched his left arm. “There,” she said quietly, slipping his ring onto his finger with more care than was perhaps necessary. Her fingers brushed over it, awed and hungry. “Just for today,” she said, but it was a plea more than a statement. “Please,” she begged. “Just for today.” His face crumpled a little, like he might cry, but he kissed her instead.

She fell backwards, and he reached down to drag her legs up onto the bed too. His mouth was hot and hungry on hers, all teeth and tongue and want. His hands moved, possessive and appreciative, mapping the curves of her beneath the yukata she had worn to bed. It was thin, white and soft and it fell like paper under his hands, spreading it open so he could touch her, skin-to-skin. He pulled back, his eyes taking her in greedily, his hands busy sliding down her bared skin.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough. “I love you so much.” There was something like urgency in his voice, and it hurt to hear. Like he didn’t think she knew, like he thought it was his last chance to say. Like maybe he hadn’t made it clear enough to her.

“I know,” she said, and a strange feeling swept through her. She reached up, one hand tangling in his hair, pulling him down so she could look him in the eye, so his hair could sweep like soft, cold silk over her breasts, her stomach, her shoulders as she drew him closer. “Oh, Shinji,  _I know_.” He just shook his head, and when he bent down to kiss her again, she just let him. His hands swept down her sides, pulling the robe away from her, laying bare her whole body.

“Shinji,” she said, her head falling back. His touch was like fire on her skin, and it was everywhere. His mouth dropped to the side of her neck, and his left hand made its way between her legs. The cold metal of the ring on her flushed skin made her gasp, and she could feel the ghost of a grin against her throat. He teased her, dragging his knuckles up and down the seam of her, and only when she made a noise that sounded like a choked, pleading approximation of his name did he press one finger into her, splitting her open like the petals of a flower. A few seconds of stroking the wet, untouched darkness between her legs, and he added another finger. Another. He stroked his thumb over the nub of nerves at her peak, and she jerked. He did it again, again, circling strokes that sent her spiraling upward. Her hands clenched in the sheets under her, mouth open and gasping for him. She squirmed and writhed under him. His eyes were wide, though, and he watched her come loose and undone in his arms with a strange intensity she’d never seen. She reached up to smooth the frown from his mouth, but he just pressed a kiss to her fingers.

“Promise me,” he asked suddenly. “Promise me that you’ll bury me. That you’ll outlive me. Promise me you won’t make me say goodbye,” he begged, voice broken and soft. She nodded, her hair clinging to the sweat on her skin.

“I promise,” she said, thumb still stroking over his cheekbone. “But you have to promise me the same.”

“Asuka,” he began, but she shook her head, sitting up.

“Shinji,” she returned, pushing him back. He went willingly, and she pulled her legs out from under him so she could kneel over him.

“Asuka-  _ah_ ,” he hissed, as she reached into his own yukata and grasped his cock in her hand. She undid the tie with her other hand, stroking him all the while.

“Say my name again,” she demanded curiously, watching him buck up into her grip. She pulled up on him, stroking him harshly, softly, back and forth with force and softness. He let out a groan and reached for her.

“ _Asuka,_ ” he panted. “Asuka, what-” She smiled wickedly, and slid her hand down his shaft as she slid her mouth over it. When she reached the base of him, she twisted her hand, let go to stroke a finger down to where his sack lay, flushed and swollen like the rest of him. She pulled up to lick over his tip, her fingers stroking a dedicated rhythm against his base, over his balls, everywhere her mouth couldn’t take. He grunted, and his hand landed in her hair. “Asuka, I-” She swallowed around his length, and he arched back, moaning. The shock of cold air on his spit-slick cock was a surprise, until he opened his eyes to see her straddling him, one hand going right back to his cock, stroking it again. She raised herself above him, one hand directing him into her, her fingers warm around him.

“Shinji,” she said, like it was a curse. A prayer. “ _Shinji._ ” She sank down onto him, her weight settling across his hips like liquid warmth, soft heat and wetness inside her, around him. He gasped, hands settling on her hips, fingers clenching into her soft flesh.

“Asuka,” he breathed, sitting up, meeting her in the middle for a kiss. “ _Asuka_ ,” he said, moving his hips in shallow circles. She moaned, her head falling forward onto his shoulder, pushing him into a position like a mirror, his face pressed into her collarbone, her shoulder, her neck. She rocked forward, their hips grinding together. She clutched at him, her arms wrapping warm around his neck.

“Shinji,” she sighed, and she lifted herself to fall down on him, her hips moving in circles every time he hilted inside of her. “Oh gods, Shinji.”

They moved back and forth, her hips and his clashing, grinding, melding with heat and wet pleasure. He pressed her closer, lifting his hips on each thrust so his hips rubbed up against her clit, choked sounds spilling from her mouth, mixed with cries of his name and soft sobbing sighs.

“Shinji,” she whimpered, shuddering in his arms, coming and coming apart. He kissed her, his hands stroking up and down her back, slow and pressing hard. He could feel himself reaching his peak, could feel himself close to that edge.

“ _Promise me_ ,” he hissed into the curve of her shoulder, jutting his hips forward with a strange, fulfilling harshness. Meeting her in the middle. His voice was thick, clouded with feeling and arousal and need, though for what she couldn’t say.

“I promise,” she gasped, arching forward into his thrusts. It was hard to think, like this, but she couldn’t not swear to it, not when she felt the same for him, not when it was a promise she couldn’t ever make for certain. “You have to promise  _me_ ,” she reminded him, digging her nails into his back. “Shinji, please.” He bent forward, biting down on her shoulder, twitching and spilling himself into her. He could see the ring on his finger pressed to her back, his hair over her shoulder, the glint of gold against her skin, and he had to close his eyes.

“I promise,” he agreed, a shuddering sigh torn from his mouth along with his climax. “I swear it,” he said, pressing his face into her shoulder, feeling her tense and relax around him. He panted, small, harsh breaths into her throat interspersed with wet kisses and gentle nips at the skin under her jaw. “I promise,” he repeated.

“I promise,” she echoed, kissing his hair, his forehead, his cheek, his lips. 

She wondered sometimes if maybe she should have done something differently, that morning, kneeling over him in the soft sunlight, his golden hair caught between her fingers. She wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have asked him to wear the ring that once. She wondered if maybe she should have asked him to wear it again.

She wondered.

“Congratulations, Captain Hirako, on your recent marriage,” the Captain Commander said in that gravely, age-old voice. Shinji held in a sigh as well as the urge to  _punch_  him in his ancient  _face_. There went all his secrecy.

“Hirako! You never let on you had a lover!” Kyoraku let out a cry of delight.

“Course not,” he scoffed, with a sharp grin that was more a flash of teeth, a spread of lips, than any emotional display. “And let the rest of you get your filthy hands on her?”

“A private wedding?” Unohana asked, and Shinji inclined his head to her.

“ _Very_  private,” he said dryly.

“But lovely, I’m sure,” Rose nudged him. He nodded.

“Nicer than my family wanted,” he admitted.

“You must truly love her,” Jushiro offered.

“With all my heart,” Shinji admitted, an unconscious smile touching at his mouth. There was a pause, the other captains looking on. “She’s the love of my life,” he said finally, the smile growing, becoming softer. It was a different smile than his usual smirk or wide grin, frail and honest and shining through with love.

Nobody mentioned it, for fear it would disappear.

The first year was hard. It was _hard_ , getting used to being married and not being married all at once. She’d sneak out to meet him for lunch, and she’d call him  _Captain_  at the door and  _dearest_  on the street, holding hands only where they wouldn’t be noticed. Shinji kept to his promise, though, the ring tucked between his haori and his heart every day, the small weight a tangible reminder of what he was fighting for, what he wanted to protect. Every night he came home and pressed a kiss to her ring, offering her a sad half-smile. “I’m sorry,” he’d murmur before kissing her lips.

“ _I’m_  not,” she finally said, on their anniversary. “So shut up.” He laughed, and he still kissed her ring that night, but he never apologized for it again.

She would to lie awake at night that first year, just thinking. Just watching him breathe. She sat up against the wall, running one hand through his hair, marveling at the fact that she could. She watched his chest rise and fall, watched his eyelashes flutter and his eyes move under his eyelids. She thought how ridiculously, unbelievably lucky she was to have met him. To have fallen in love with him. To have had him fall in love with  _her_. She fell asleep like that, sitting up, and when he woke he’d lie her down, tuck her in. He pretended he didn’t know how she spent each night, unbearably grateful for something he’d offer up to her in an instant if she didn’t already have it. He pretended it didn’t hurt that she couldn’t trust that he loved her. He pretended he didn’t wish every night that she’d close her eyes. That she’d trust he’d be there in the morning.

He sighed and ran a hand through her hair, kissed her forehead.

“Mm?” She asked, reaching up to catch his wrist with a grip far stronger than any half-asleep person should have.

“Nothing,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she murmured, slowly releasing him. “Please come back,” she whispered, already falling back asleep.

“Always,” he said, but she didn’t hear. His smile faded a little. One day she’d hear it. She’d understand it. One day.

And the thing was, she did. One year became ten became twenty. He returned to their home every night he could, shucking the white haori and hanging it in the hallway. He came to bed silent and soft, the harshness of the day draining from him like water. She welcomed him with a smile and gentle hands, glad to see him no matter the hour because it meant he was safe. It meant he was hers. Even as the nights he came home grew fewer and farther between, she didn’t worry. He left before the sun hit full blue in the sky, left her notes when he had the chance, the faint feeling of a kiss on her forehead making her smile for the rest of the day. The ring burned in his clothes, forcing him to think of her all day long.

They had very little time, between her hours at the bakery and his at the Division, but they made the most of what they did have, made more of what they could.

And the more time stretched between them, the more small moments and soft words grew in the darkness of their room, the more afternoons they spent sneaking away from work for good food and stolen kisses in forest groves, the more strongly they felt for each other. He felt the same pang of regret every morning, she felt the same flush of relief every time she heard his quiet footsteps in the night. They made time. They found ways to show they still loved each other. Time passed pleasantly, if not easily. He protected his few days off jealously, fiercely, reserving them as much as months ahead of time. He would come home, curl up around her in their bed, and then wake up the next morning to her humming in the kitchen.

They’d eat together, get caught up in a kiss, and inevitably make their way to bed. She’d tease the tension out of him, calm his fears and thoughts and ever-present paranoia with hands and teeth and tongue, and in return he’d lay her out with the same, prove his devotion and gratitude with gentle touch and fierce kisses. She stopped worrying about whether she deserved him, whether he deserved better. She smiled more freely, spoke more confidently. She bloomed. Under the warmth of his hand and the honest happiness between them, her doubt withered and she grew brighter. Even with as little time as they had, it was enough. They made it enough.

He watched her with fascination, with admiration and gladness. He had always loved her, even uncertain and bashful, but seeing her sharp and confident, clever and smiling- it took his breath away sometimes. She was like the sun, to him. Shining and constant, even and warm. Even at her worst, she was beautiful. Even on days when the world seemed like it was bent on tearing itself apart, she brought him hope and comfort.

He could only hope he did the same for her.

When Sosuke Aizen was made Lieutenant, things began to change.

She came over to the Division to meet him on her day off, ready to leave for lunch, only to find the usually vacant Lieutenant’s desk occupied.

“Shit,” Asuka said to herself, darting back around the corner. There was no motion from the office, as if the Lieutenant hadn’t even seen her. She had seen just a flash of him, dark hair and glasses and that damn badge on his arm.

“Why didn’t you  _tell_ me you chose someone!” She hissed at Shinji later, smacking him on the arm with the fan she’d stolen from him that morning. “He almost saw me!”

“I was going to, but there was that whole acceptance debacle, and I just-  _stop that!_ ” He hissed right back, snatching the fan from her hand.

“You  _are_  going to tell me the whole story,” she warned him.

“Later,” he agreed. She nodded firmly.

“Later.”

She avoided Aizen, after that. It quickly became a habit, Shinji slipping out instead of her stepping in, further emphasizing her divide from his work. So it wasn’t too much of a surprise that she still hadn’t met Aizen properly after a year and a half of his being her husband’s Lieutenant.

“He’s not right,” Shinji murmured into her hair one night, half-asleep and frowning. “There’s just something about him that unsettles me.”

“What do you want me to do?” She asked, trying to think of a way to help. A way she could protect him.

“Stay away from the Division?” he asked, a reluctance in his voice. “I don’t want him near you.” He sighed, rolling over onto his back and pulling her with him so she was lying on his shoulder. “Until I know if I can handle him. Keep your distance.”

“Mmmkay,” she agreed, burrowing further into his chest. He stroked a hand through her hair, staring at the ceiling until he finally dropped off to sleep.

He snuck out to see her after that. Aizen didn’t seem to catch on, didn’t even look up when Shinji left to meet Asuka in broad daylight, skipped out on work for lunch in a meadow. Didn’t say anything when he came back smiling, flower pollen on his uniform and the scent of plums drifting around him. Aizen, whatever he was, whoever he was, was either completely unobservant (unlikely, but possible), or had a very good poker face (more likely, but less preferable).

So Shinji sighed and agreed that it was probably alright for her to come get him every now and then, that it was probably alright for her to step into his world sometimes as she had before.

Even after Aizen met Asuka, damn near walked into her (and she _knew_  he had done it on purpose, because she knew what it looked like when someone walked into you on accident, and that was _not_  it), he didn’t ask why she had stolen his Captain for an afternoon. He didn’t bat an eye at any of it.

It was the Lieutenant who came to tell her Shinji was dead.

It had been a perfectly normal day, but for the fact that she had left first. She had skipped out to prepare the bakery for an inspection, pressing a kiss to his temple but being so tired she hit his hair instead.

“Love you,” she whispered, smiling.

“Mm,” he grunted, waving tiredly. His hand flopped over the side of the bed, limp and boneless.

She closed the door behind her, laughing.

It was a simple day. She finished the prep, oversaw the inspection, presided over the tasting, made batches of filling for the next day, began the boiled doughs and uncooked pastry to place in the icebox for the weekend. She even finished early, with enough time to go home and change before making dinner. She was singing a song Fuumiko had taught her, something about ladies, she didn’t know, but the tune was nice, and she could make up the words.

There was a knock at the door, sharp and official, and she felt her heart drop, her voice died on its next word. She’d been dreading that sound since she and Shinji had filed the paperwork that denoted her as his next of kin rather than his family. She dreaded it now.

She walked slowly, slowly to the door. One step at a time, the floor sapping warmth from her as she walked, until she reached the door feeling about the size of a mouse. She swung open the door.

“Hello?” She asked, looking up to see the Lieutenant, face drawn into sadness, glasses cracked and a bundle of dark fabric in his hands.

“Lady Hirako?” His voice was dark, composed, and she could feel herself shake. No. Not this.  _Anything_  but this.

“Yes,” she said, her voice coming out sharper, fearful. “Why?” He sighed, holding out the bundle. She took it, afraid.

“I regret to inform you that your husband, Captain Hirako of the Fifth Division, was killed tonight on a mission. His remains were cremated, as they were deemed too emotionally distressing to leave whole. You may retrieve his ashes come morning.” She shook her head, in denial.

“You’re  _wrong_ ,” she said, voice hollow and thin. She uncovered whatever was being given to her, unfolding layers of black fabric to find a familiar sword. Her husband’s sword.

She looked down at his sword, tracing a single, trembling finger up the scabbard, from tip to hilt, where she curled her other hand. The red lacing, the color she knew as well his eyes, the gold tsuba like an hourglass. Sakanade, she thought. Undeniably. She fell to her knees, clutching the sword to her chest. She couldn’t see through the tears, but she thought it was the Lieutenant who knelt beside her.

“Lady Hirako-” he began, reaching out to touch her, but she grasped his wrist with a practiced hand.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, soft and firm. “Don’t you _dare_.” He withdrew, standing again, and if she was looking, she might have seen the mingled confusion and displeasure on his face. She wouldn’t have cared if she did, though.

“He died fighting,” the Lieutenant told her, and she supposed it was meant as a kindness but it didn’t feel kind, it felt cold and harsh and unfeeling like the sword in her arms. Robbed of its soul, its kindness stolen by the truth of things.

“I’d rather he didn’t die at all,” she said thickly, and now the tears were coming, dripping from her eyes in sync with the sharp breaths forcing sobs from her mouth. “I’d rather he was  _here_ ,” she whispered. The Lieutenant stood over her, hovering, as if uncertain of what to do with her. “Just  _go_ ,” she hissed at him. “Please,” she said, her voice breaking. “Please go.”

He went, and she sat in the doorway until the sun rose. She caressed the sword in her hands, turning it over and over, trying to memorize every inch of it. It was a piece of Shinji’s soul, a shred of him left for her, the  _last_  piece of him. She had held it before, of course, had felt the thrum of power and life in it, the vague sensation of lightheadedness and the taste of spun sugar on her tongue. As if it were alive, and mischievous, and fond of her.

She felt none of that now. The sword she held was dead steel, cold and steady in her palms, and she hated it a little for that because she remembered what it had been alive. What  _he_  had been, alive.

Those memories grew sharper, in time.

They became shards of broken glass, stabbing through her like blades. They traveled with her, heavy and ice-cold with the loss of him. She hung the blade in their room, in pride of place on the wall on what had been his side of the bed. She took it down every night, cared for it, cleaned it. Sharpened it.

It sang for her, too, in a way.

The Lieutenant came to the bakery a few months later, bearing a heavy packet of paper and a jar of ashes.

“Lieutenant,” she nodded, and the others crowded into the back room, craning over each other to see what was between the two of them.

“Lady Hirako,” he returned, with a low bow. “I’m afraid I’m here with business.”

“Good,” she said flatly. She’d seen the way he looked at her, that day he walked right into her on purpose. She had always had a strange feeling about him, and there he was, months after Shinji’s death, edging onto come-ons and flirting phrases. “I’d prefer business with you,” she said, and there was no joke in her voice, no tease. Just cold disapproval. He frowned, and it was honest, at least.

“This is your husband’s pension,” he told her, and then placing the jar on the counter he sighed. “These are his ashes.” Asuka’s heart clogged her throat. It was so small. Shinji had always been bright and strong, expansive and wild. Never like that, small and grey and encapsulated in one crystal jar.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice hushed and small.

“Your husband was very generous,” the Lieutenant said, and though he was complimenting him, there was a cold glint in his eye that said he meant none of it as a compliment. “He left everything to you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Asuka said, bowing lightly. “I’m grateful.”

“You needn’t work here any longer, then,” he said, and her heart clenched with irritation and anger. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“Why not?” She asked stiffly, and his frown deepened.

“You’ll be well taken care of,” he offered, confused. “You’ll never have to work again.”

“I don’t work because I have to, Lieutenant,” she said coldly. “I work because I enjoy it. Now if you would please conduct the rest of your business and then depart, I’d be most grateful.” She gestured at the empty bakery. “We’re very busy, you see.”

And that should have been the end of it. Except he didn’t give up.

He returned one day, bearing flowers, pretty quince blossoms and soft throatwort.

 _Temptation_ , Asuka heard her mother’s voice in her head, bent and bony fingers rubbing color from the petals.  _Neglected beauty_. Is that what the Lieutenant believed she was? Is that what the Lieutenant believed he could giveher? Something Shinji hadn’t? There was nothing.  _Nothing_. He couldn’t offer her what she wanted, because she wanted her husband back. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat and she forced it down.

“Lieutenant,” she nodded, and he laid the flowers before her, those square-rimmed glasses flashing in the light. He bowed, and she wanted him gone, she didn’t want this, she wanted the flowers as far from her as possible.

“A token of my sympathies,” he said, but those were flowers for courting and she wanted to scoff at him. Did he think she didn’t know what he was doing? 

He came around the side of the counter, stepping behind her. Pressing himself over her. She tensed up, fear and anger warring in her heart.

“You’ve grieved for so long,” Aizen whispered, and her very soul wanted to get away from him.

“I will continue to grieve, Lieutenant,” she said, opening her eyes. “Until the day I die.” She pulled away from him, stepping forward, out of his reach, but his hands were still on her waist, and he tried to pull her back. His mouth was soft and warm at her ear, but it stirred nothing in her but sadness.

“He never deserved you,” Aizen crooned, his hands sliding low to her hips, pulling her in close until she felt the heat of him again at her back. “He never loved you like you deserved.” She choked on her words, and he took the opportunity to wrap an arm around her waist, to press his hips to hers, and she could feel the hardness there. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to tell him to leave. He was wrong _. He was wrong, he was wrong, he was wrong_. “You deserve to be out in the open, not some dirty secret locked away under cover of darkness,” he purred into her ear, and she snapped. It was like that dinner all over again, only this time Shinji wasn’t there to catch her when she came home. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the door opened. Her heart shuddered to a stop.

“Lieutenant Aizen?” The boy that stepped through the door had a soft, drawling voice that nevertheless filled her shop with  _presence_ , but he couldn’t be more than twelve.

“Gin,” the Lieutenant said, something sharp in his voice. But his hands had left her hips, hovering above them, his head was turned away, and she took the opportunity.

“Please leave, Lieutenant,” she said, and voice was eerily calm. “You have business to attend to, and I will not have you say such things about my husband in my presence.” She grasped his wrist and pulled it away from her waist, stepping forward. Leaving him behind. “Take your flowers and _leave_.”

“They’re for you,” he said quietly, and she could almost hear him reformulating his plans. He bowed. “Take them as a token of regard, if nothing else, my lady.” The small, silver-haired boy watched with closed eyes, a curious tension pressing down on each of them.

“Lieutenant,” he repeated. “We gotta go.” The Lieutenant shot the boy a harsh look, but his face remained still, impervious to his superior’s anger.

“My lady,” the Lieutenant said, offering a short bow.

He left. She locked the door behind him, the phantom touch of his hands all over her, places she never wanted anyone to touch but Shinji. She felt him clinging to her, and she shook.  She screamed, falling to her knees. Tears pricked at her eyes, her heart beat loud and fast and uneven in her chest. The agony splitting her heart did not abate. She wanted him gone.

She wanted to go.

She burned the flowers, watched the flames consume their fragile petals like creeping death. When they were nothing but ash, she poured them into a glass bottle and sent them to the Division.

 _My regards_ , the tag said.

He didn’t come back for months, and she calmed.

They made him Captain, as she knew they would, because what else could they do, and he came to her again.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, reaching out. She pulled back, everything about her tight and mistrustful. His hand closed on air, and he dropped it with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry,” he said, and she raised an eyebrow. “I am,” he insisted. “I meant only to express my regard- my _esteem_  for you.” The bitterness that crossed his face at the memory of how she returned his gift almost made her smile.

Almost.

She sighed and crossed her arms.

“Why are you here?”

“I told you, I wanted to-”

“ _Why_  are you  _here_?” He paused, withdrawing again.

“I care for you, my lady,” he said, the words stilted, as if he was unpracticed in saying them, as if unlike every other lie he held this one was foreign to him. New. Uncomfortable. His teeth grit together. “I  _want_ you,” he admitted, and the simple resentment in those words marked them as true. She narrowed her eyes.

“You cannot replace my husband,” she said, and his face twisted, just a little, just enough that she could tell that that’s what he meant to do. It smoothed over almost immediately, but she remained still. “You may be able to take his place at the Division, among the other Captains, in their world, but you can never take his place with me,” she told him, ice and steel in her voice. “You can never take his place in my home, in my bed, in my heart.” He looked taken aback, and she smiled unkindly. “You will never be half the man he was,” she said evenly. “And you will remember it always.” She turned away, picking up a bundle of flowers and offering them to him. Tansy and Tussilage. His face went slack, and her smile widened. “Goodbye,  _Lieutenant_ ,” she said, and the sharp jerk that went through him at her use of the wrong title kindled satisfaction in her heart. He took them stiffly, reluctantly.

“Goodbye, my lady,” he said, bowing and walking out as if there was nothing he wanted more than to be out of her home.

Good.

That was what she wanted, too.

He got the message after that. He did not return. She worked to let go of Shinji. She planted syringa and lily of the valley, worked every day at the bakery, baked and molded and shaped until her fingers had forgotten the feeling of his skin under them, his hair between them. She breathed in sugar and yeast until she forgot the scent of him, dug and watered and weeded until she forgot what he looked like in the early morning light, until she forgot how he felt under her and over her and warm at her side. She never forgot. She couldn’t. She clung to those memories. Loved them more dearly than any other.

Fifty years after, she heard Ichimaru was being promoted- Captain of the Third, they said, and she remembered the strange, quiet man who stepped into her shop when she most needed somebody to, who called to his Captain like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter that his hands left her hips and his head turned away from her. Like it was just something he had to do.

She attended the ceremony, and she could tell when he spotted her, because his smile ticked down half a notch. She gave him a half-smile, tinted with pride and thanks, and he returned it with something like surprise. She felt the Lieutenant’s eyes on her, but she slipped away before he could find her.

She visited Shinji’s grave one last time.

“Fifty years,” she told his empty grave. She played with the offering in her lap, the same wagashi she had made for their wedding, delicate and perfect, better after so many more years of practice. The wind blew her hair into her face, and she laughed because he would have. The sound died in the breeze, and so did her half-hearted smile. “I can’t come back here,” she said, finally. “I can’t. I still love you, and I can’t-” her voice broke, and she bent to hide her tears. “I can’t bear to see your name in stone anymore. I can’t  _bear_  to-” She stopped, leaning forward until her forehead rested against the stone. “I can’t bear it.” The wind whispered through her hair, warmer than before, and she could fool herself it was him for half a second. “I can’t believe you broke your fucking promise,” she laughed bitterly. She shook her head. Stood.

“I love you,” she told him. “ _Always_.”

She left, and she didn’t return for fifty years.

It’s when Aizen left that they told her.

When he’d shattered the rest of them like he did her husband, critically injured most of them, broke the resolve of the rest. When he’d done to them what he’d done to her, that was when they felt it was alright to tell her the truth. Her heart broke again, and her soul screamed. She made her way to the Eighth.

“Was it you?” She asked, cold fury in every inch of her. Kyouraku’s face drew in even more.

“ _Was. It. You._ ” She repeated, eyes blazing with a kind of loathing he hadn’t believed her capable of.

“Yes,” he said finally. Guilt and regret in every breath. “I testified that Lieutenant Aizen never left the Seireitei.”

“And you were wrong,” she finished for him. “What lie did he tell you?”

“I saw him-”

“What lie did he tell you about  _Shinji_?”

“Hollowfication,” Shunsui sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “That much was true, but we still don’t know if the rest of it was.”

“The rest of  _what_?” She asked calmly. Coldly controlled and still. “Because I could have sworn I was told my husband was  _dead_. That he was dead, and so were the others, and that whatever happened out there was nobody’s fault but theirs.”

“Lady Hirako,” he began, but before he could finish, she slammed a sword down on the desk between them. Red lacing, an hourglass tsuba, a long red scabbard. It was a sword clearly beloved by its owner. It was clean and cared-for, treasured.  _Cherished._  Shunsui’s heart caught in his throat. He hadn’t seen that sword in-

“ _One hundred years_ ,” she hissed. “I thought he was dead for one hundred years, and now you have the audacity to tell me that you didn’t even think that? That there was yet another lie beneath that one that you didn’t even bother to tell me?”

“Lady Hirako,” he began again, softly, shamefully.

“Whose sword is this?” She asked, and the anger was fading into agony. Tears were pooling, beginning to spill over her cheeks. “What have I been clinging to all this time?” She swiped the tears from her eyes with one hand. Her voice stumbled, snapped, broke. “ _Where is he?_ ”  _How could he leave me?_  She didn’t say.  _How could you do this?_ She didn’t scream.  _How will I ever find him?_  She didn’t cry. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, swallowing a thousand more questions.

“Out there,” Shunsui admitted softly. “In the world of the living, perhaps. They all disappeared at once, after Shihoin broke Urahara and Tsukabishi out of their trial.” She laughed, a sad, sharp sound.

“And what was that trial about, I wonder?” She asked bitterly. “Who testified that there should  _be_  a trial?” Shunsui couldn’t contain the sharp breath that forced out of him.

“Captain?” A voice came from the doorway, and they both turned to see the remaining captains standing against the opposite wall. Nanao stood, frowning, kido just seconds from her lips.

“Oh good,” Asuka said crisply. “The  _rest_ of you.”

“The rest of us?” Soi Fon asked, sounding deeply offended. “How dare you-”

“How dare _I_?” The steel in her voice snapped Soi Fon’s offense in two. Calm, even, but her voice was far from emotionless. Raw fury and ice-cold disdain dripped from her every word. “How dare I?  _You_  I can pardon, you weren’t even a Lieutenant then, and Byakuya little more than a child, and, hell, even the Kenpachi did more justice in killing his predecessor than he knew. But the rest of you? The rest of you have a great deal to answer for.” She turned fully to face them, and Jushiro’s sharp inhale brought a bitter smile to her face. “At least one of you knows what I mean.”

“What  _do_  you mean?” Byakuya asked, leaning heavily against the doorway.

“Well first off, I mean that you should go to the Fourth,” she observed, raising an eyebrow. “But otherwise, I’m talking about what happened one hundred years ago.” Unohana stepped into the room, caught sight of Asuka, and went still.

“Captain,” she nodded, and Unohana inclined her head in return. “You should take that one away,” she gestured at Byakuya. “Before he… y’know… drops dead.”

“No,” Byakuya said. At her raised eyebrow he shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“One hundred years ago, eight Captains and Lieutenants went missing- only they weren’t missing at all. They were forced to undergo a process called hollowfication. Not long after, another Captain and the Head of the Kido Corps were court-martialed. They were freed by the head of the Stealth Corps, and all three disappeared. I was  _told_ ,” she said sharply, and Kyouraku’s wince was visible to all, “that my husband was dead. Come to find out, he was one of the missing. The hollowfied. And Aizen, his Lieutenant at that time, was responsible.” She looked up from the sword she held.

“Central 46 had sentenced those eight to death,” she said softly. “They took one look at eight high-ranking shinigami who had been hollowfied, and decided to execute them all because it  _must_  have been voluntary. How,” she snapped. “ _How_  do you sleep at night? How do each of you lay down your heads knowing that the people you trust to guard your laws and devise punishments were so blind they played into Aizen’s hands  _over and over again_  for one hundred years? How do you sleep knowing you put all your trust in a group of 46 noblemen and judges, all of whom were corrupt and unjust themselves?  _Knowing_  that they sentence the innocent to death? Knowing they were so similar to Aizen that he could impersonate them for  _months_? Because in all honesty, if I could go back to before Aizen murdered them all, I might very well try it  _myself_.”

“Lady Hirako-”

“Shut up,” she snapped at Ukitake. “You’re no better. None of you are.” She shook her head. “You would have stood by and watched while they executed them,” she said, her voice cracking. “You would have watched them  _murder_  my husband and you would have called it justice. And you would never have  _told_  me.” She looked around at them, measuring, considering. “Well I’m done. I’m done with all of this. Somewhere out there, my husband is alive. And I will find him, even if nobody else cares to try and make amends. _I_  will.”

She stepped out into the sun, making her way calmly to the grave she hadn’t seen in fifty years. It was worn. It had aged since she’d last seen it. It was well-tended, likely Fuumiko and Yamayo’s doing. She sighed, brushing a hand over his name in the cold stone.

“ _Promise me,_ ” his voice rang in her ear, sharp and soft, and clear even from a hundred and more years ago. “ _Promise me that you’ll bury me. That you’ll outlive me. Promise me you won’t make me say goodbye._ ”

“I promise,” she sighed, looking down at the grave which held no corpse, the sword which held no soul, the hand which held no hand. She closed it into a fist, and looked up. “I will find you,” she swore.

“I  _promise_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lily of the valley, which is also the insignia of the fifth division, signifies the return of happiness
> 
> Ivy represents both marriage and fidelity
> 
> Syringa signifies memory
> 
> Tansy means “I declare war against you”, while Tussilage means “Justice will be done you.”


End file.
